When Everything Is Blue(49)

“I think I just had a panic attack,” I tell him.

He nods without saying anything, rattled as well.

“Shit.” I run my hands through my hair and pat myself down. There was a moment there where I didn’t feel real—like, I had no physical presence. I was floating just above myself, like I was perched on my shoulder viewing what was going on without being an actual participant.

“What happened?” Chris asks.

“I freaked the fuck out.”

“What happened to cause it? You came back from the gas station all pale and shit.”

“Oh.” I think back, having trouble remembering. “This guy gave me his number.” Only that wasn’t exactly it. It was everything else, the sensation that this would never end and I had no control over it. That my life was not my own.

“Who was it?” he asks.

“Justin.”

“Justin who?” Chris looks like he’s gearing up to kick some more ass.

“Justin from the gas station. He said he’d seen the picture, and he gave me his number. Told me to call him.” I reach into my pocket and produce the strip of paper, uncrumple it, and stare at it—okay, at least I’m not imagining things. Chris springs to his feet and paces the room.

“He doesn’t even go to our school, Chris. How many people do you think saw the picture?” My heart flutters, and the swell of panic balloons all over again.

“I don’t know.”

“I’m scared,” I admit. “There’s this whole other level to my social anxiety now, wondering who’s seen it. What they’re thinking, whether they’ll turn around and talk shit behind my back.”

“People will forget about it in a few days,” Chris says.

“Will they?”

He frowns and doesn’t offer any more encouragement.

“What if it follows me forever?”

“It won’t.”

“Shit,” I curl up on his bed, squeezing a pillow to my chest. Chris sits down at my back and lays a hand on my shoulder.

“I’m with you, Theo. I’ll be there every step of the way. You’re not alone.”

“Okay,” I say shakily and then a little stronger, “Okay.”





What’s in Wooten’s Mouth?


I WAKE up early Sunday morning for work. I took off Saturday because of the party, but it’s good to be back in the real world, surrounded by guys who have no idea I’m making the circuit on social media. Yeah, I checked my accounts that morning, and it’s not pretty. There’s this whole thread with the headline, “What’s in Wooten’s mouth?” There are all these filters people have put on top of the photo—a banana, a pickle, a dog’s butt…. The dog’s expression is one of surprise and dismay. Pretty creative. If it wasn’t me they were mocking, I might even find it mildly humorous.

The comments range from wisecracks to propositions and then, farther down, a forum of debate between gay rights advocates and bigots. I sign out so I won’t be tempted to dig further, excusing myself entirely from the conversation.

I decide then I’m not going to let Dave run me out of my own school or dwell on the fact that everyone now knows I have a taste for cock. It’s time for me to man up, and by that I mean, own my shit and be real about who I am. Screw the haters. I never had much use for them anyway.

At work I enjoy the solidness of the tools in my hand, the vibrations of the mowers and edgers, the sun on my skin, and the utter exhaustion of eight hours of manual labor. At the end of the day, I text my boss and tell him I’m ready to take on more hours. I need something to occupy my time and keep me out of my own head.

After work I consider going straight to Chris’s house and hiding out for a few more hours until his parents get back but figure I can’t delay the inevitable much longer. I climb the stairs to our kitchen. My sister’s nowhere in sight, so I tiptoe past her room so that she won’t know I’m home. But when I open my door, she’s sitting there on my bed, legs crossed, waiting for me.

I eye her warily and try to determine the nature of this intrusion. She crosses her arms and raises her eyebrows. She looks like a younger, sassier version of our mom.

“So, are you gay or what?” She purses her lips and looks at me expectantly.

I lean against the doorway and try to predict which way this thing will go. “Yeah, I am.”

She huffs, audibly. “You could have told me, you know?”

“I didn’t tell anyone.”

“Not even Chris?”

“Nope.” Especially not Chris.

She sighs, uncrosses her arms, and pats my bed for me to join her.

“You inviting me in to my own room?”

She tilts her head and scowls. “Come sit, baby brother.”

Tabs is about two minutes older than me, and she loves reminding me of it whenever she has the opportunity. She probably elbowed me out of the way to be first. I slouch over and sit with my back against the headboard, swat at her with one of the pillows, then hug it to my chest. I need something to hold on to.

“Here’s the thing,” she begins. “I always thought you were being weird on purpose—”

“Why would anyone be weird on purpose?” I interrupt.